Recordings
by voiceover
Summary: Sequel to Soundtrack. A fill-in-the-blanks for the finale, starting with Chapter 1: Playback. Now it's Betty's turn to sort through it all.
1. Chapter 1: Playback

_Losing you is very hard for him, Betty. I don't even think he knows quite why yet._

Her first morning at the office, Lindsay Dunne sent a car for her.

"Just to make sure you can find the place," he assured her over cocktails the night before. "We don't want you lost, your first day at the magazine!"

Betty smiled over her glass. _Like that would ever happen_. She'd already MapQuested the place from Heathrow, from her hotel, and from the Starbucks off Piccadilly Circus.

"Darling, Tony's here!" trilled Dunne's wife, a blonde with legs longer than Betty was tall. She looked not that much older than Betty herself, which would've come as a surprise, had she not Googled her employer and found out, among other choice bits, that Jemima Sloane was fourth in a string of brides who'd got younger as he got older.

"Duty calls," her new boss grinned at her. She grinned back. Despite the wives, and the monstrously expensive surroundings, it was hard not to like this man who'd flown across the Atlantic to hire her away from _Mode_.

She watched him walk towards another small knot of people, then turned her head away to look out the massive balcony doors at the Thames. This view was something. All the lights of London, twinkling back through the glass; a little like New York, a little like the view from the bridge that night of …_You're better than any model, Betty._

She nearly dropped her drink, managing to trap it between the glass and her hip before it hit the floor. Stop that. Stop thinking like that_. _

_He's there/I'm here/It's over_ – a six-word litany that had been Betty's mantra ever since Flight 504, Virgin Atlantic, had taken off from JFK.

....

She kept expecting he'd show up.

No message, no phone call, no text; but even during that last hour in New York, she kept looking for him: running down the corridors and past the Cinnabons and shoeshine stands, vaulting over left luggage, dodging slower passengers, all to get to her, his Betty, just to confirm his mother's suspicion, just to pluck her from the line of first-class patrons, and blurt out, breathless, "Betty, you can't go, I –"

And this is where Betty always snapped out of it. She wouldn't let herself imagine how Daniel might finish that sentence, because, well…Too many movies. She'd seen too many movies, is all. Plus, if he hadn't shown up at the airport that night, he was never going to show. It was Claire Meade's fault for putting it out there in the first place. _I have a theory..._Well, so did Betty! She had a theory that Daniel Meade was a big fat jerk.

But the night before her new job started, Betty dreamed:

_I think we make a good team, you and...You have to believe me when I say this: you are...tell you, there's no way I could've done this job without...you are beautiful!...._

The Dunne Building was decorated just shy of intimidating: all trendy London elegance.

Lindsay had been showing her around. Now they were in Betty's own office, and not for the first time, he was muttering an apology about her assistant.

"Wanted to get you one of your own people; er…American, of course; maybe make the transition a bit less dodgy, don'tcha know…" he huffed a bit, glancing at his watch, "Ever so sorry, she's actually quite professional, don't know what might be keeping –"

"Ohhh, shut up, old man; I'm here!" The accent was definitely not British.

In swooped a 40-something, curvy brunette, head-to-toe in black, but with bright red lips. She shook her head at Lindsay, brushing past him as if he'd been a fly, and held her arms out to Betty. "Finally: one of my own! Now you'll show all these tight-asses how a proper American does things!"

Betty gulped at the sight of Dunne's face. It had gone from friendly to shuttered within seconds, and there was a glint of something—steely disapproval? in his eyes. But he merely said,

"Betty Suarez…Sondra Matthews. She's to be your assistant. For the time being." The last words sounded a bit threatening, but Sondra laughed up at him.

"By that I suppose you mean, 'Until she finds someone better"; well, you know and I know – not gonna happen, soooo – unclench!"

Unbelievable. She'd seen how Dunne's employees had scattered like pods in the wind at his approach; she hadn't heard a soul even complete a sentence to the great man while she was in earshot. This woman wasn't afraid of him, obviously.

But he looked down at Sondra, and just for a moment, the steel softened, and Betty heard him murmur,

"Cheeky bitch."

And with a "We'll speak later, Betty," he was gone.

...

Betty was grateful for Sondra in the days that followed. Her assistant, it turned out, had lived in England for over twenty years. She was married to a British archaeologist, a schoolmate of Lindsay's from Cambridge, who kept "flinging about to the four corners," as Sondra put it. They were apparently inseparable for half the year, then during dig season, while Roger was off to discover new civilizations, Sondra stayed behind to do her own work. That included penning the odd murder mystery, filling in at Dunne Publishing, and now, apparently, mothering Betty.

Dunne rolled by from time to time while Sondra was off somewhere else. "Remind her that you're the boss, Betty – she sometimes forgets her place!" but the look in his eyes when he said it belied the stern tone. It didn't matter, anyway. Starting a new magazine was overwhelming enough. She was grateful for the advice and scoldings ladled out by the older woman. Sondra had spent enough time in every other department that she seemed to know the building better than the man whose name was on it.

It was only during certain…down times…she'd get caught off-guard, and then she regretted her assistant's sharp eyes. For she missed nothing.

One day, Sondra was reviewing a lengthy fax that had just come in. It was a letter of reference for one of the editing positions.

"What the hell! Did his mother write this?… who needs four pages to recommend _any_body?"

_Daniel, this is six pages!...That's short. You should've seen the first draft._

He'd felt so bad about the YETI business. And, being Daniel, he'd tried his best to fix it. _Look. I know you're going places. Just try not to get there…to get there…backwards you are moving backwards!...You have so much ahead of you! _Fix it? Why'd he have to try to fix anything? He'd poked his nose where it didn't belong, and it had cost Henry his job!

Until it hadn't. Because Daniel Meade had fixed that, too.

"Betty?"

Her assistant looked concerned. And a little bit curious.

"Just leave it for me. I'll go over it later. Don't I have a meeting with Graphics in fifteen minutes?"

Something in Betty's face stopped the question on Sondra's lips, and she merely nodded....

Another deadline, or "Dreadline", as Sondra had taken to calling them. Betty had just come back from checking a new ad layout, phone glued to her ear as the marketing guy droned on, barely paying attention as she flipped through galleys. She glanced up as she approached her office –-

-- then stopped. Sondra's expression was most peculiar.

Ice formed in her stomach, and without thinking, she hung up on Gerald from Marketing, and dropped the galleys onto the desk in front of her.

"What?" Braced for the worst.

"Somebody got some flow-ers! Actually," Sondra burst out laughing, giddier than Betty had ever seen her, which was saying something, "there's a motherfucking hothouse in your office!"

And she wasn't far wrong. All of Covent Garden appeared to be crowded into the space. She could smell the blooms before she even walked in.

"Here's the card," Sondra chattered on, waving it in front of Betty. "Return addy, 'Meade Publishing, New York', thank you very much!"

As soon as the word "Meade" was spoken, all strength seemed to desert her, and Betty felt her knees start to buckle. Sondra's expression changed from happy to horrified.

"Betty! What is it, sweetie? What's wrong?"

Unbelievable. She actually had to put her head between her knees. _Betty, I can't live without you…You're leaving, aren't you?...Are we good are we good are we….I have a theory..._

There was a glass of water and a chair and Sondra's face, now impassive, which Betty knew by now was her assistant's way of hiding her feelings. She did that as well as she did many things, Betty thought. _I could learn from her_.

She put on a watery smile. "Woah," she managed. "Must've got some bad latte!"

Sondra didn't smile back, but after a moment, she handed Betty the card.

It was still sealed.

"You didn't open it."

Surprise in her voice. "It's not mine to open." Assistant and boss stared at each other for a moment. Then Betty tore at the envelope.

_Here's to "Volume I, Number One"! _ And it was signed:_ Claire Meade._

_..._

The pub had been the older woman's idea. Lindsay had almost intercepted them on the way out, but Sondra would have none of it.

"Betty, good I ran into you. We need to discuss –"

"We're going out," Sondra cut in.

He scoffed. "After I have a meeting with my editor."

Betty put up her hand, as if to say, I'm coming, or, It's nothing, but at that moment, no one was paying any attention.

The archeologist's wife faced down the publishing magnate. He glowered down at her small frame. She got in his face.

"You have been running this girl ragged since she stepped off the plane. Now, I am taking her out for an hour or two to feed her, and to introduce her to something that isn't the four walls of this office, and you'll just have to survive on your good looks and charm until then."

"But we need to discuss –"

"An evening," Sondra bellowed. "In a pub! Bugger off, Arthur." (_Arthur?_)

And in the world of Dunne Publishing, that, apparently, was that. Betty's boss stepped aside. An attempt at the last word ("You'll have her back first thing in the morning, then!") brought a grunt in response and a hasty nod from Betty.

" 'Arthur'?" Betty asked when they were safely out of earshot.

Sondra waved the question aside. "His middle name. I only use it in emergencies."

...

Later on at the pub Sondra finally ventured a guess. "You thought it was from...him. Didn't you?"

Sondra had read something in a gossip rag about Daniel, and it had taken Betty days to convince her assistant that the two weren't an item. But now….now Betty was too exhausted to deny it. It's exhausting to deny him, she thought. I'm so tired of _He's there/I'm here/It's over_. "He didn't come to my farewell party. I think he hates me."

"He doesn't," Sondra's lips were saying the words, but it was suddenly Claire's voice that Betty heard. _"Losing you is very hard for him, Betty. I don't even think he knows quite why yet._"

"You don't know that." Now she was speaking to the Sondra before her and the Claire in her head. "Anyway, I don't want to discuss it. Can't we talk about something else?"

Sondra opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. "We can talk about that cover story. Matt Smith. Now there's a "Doctor Who" I could do!"

And after five pints – each -- that was the funniest thing either one of them had ever heard.

...

It was Saturday night, and she was back at the Dunne's loft, and there was another party going on. She was interviewing the most wanted man in England for the cover story of the first edition of her new magazine.

Matt Smith was holding her, and they were moving to the music, talking about his premiere as the eleventh Doctor Who, and how it felt, stepping into David Tennant's shoes, and would women find him as sexy, blah blah blah…

Her head was thrown back, laughing, when she heard him say, "I saw that layout you made for Fabia…"

She snapped upright, suddenly stone sober and afraid. It was still Matt Smith. But he was speaking in another voice. A voice as familiar to her as her own –

"…_I thought it was very smart. And beautiful!_"

"Matt," she said, her voice wobbling dangerously. "What are you talking about?" He sighed.

"_You have tonight. Otherwise I'll probably be out of a job...Because I can't imagine being here without you"_

Before her brain could process what her ears were hearing, she felt a tap. She saw Matt look over her shoulder, and smile.

"She's all yours, mate," he said, only it was his own voice again, and Betty, trying to stammer out a "Huh -- ?" and a "Thanks -–" felt herself being twirled around to face –-

_Daniel._

She was in the circle of Daniel Meade's arms, and he was gazing at her, the blue of his eyes dark and stormy, though he was smiling.

"You didn't say good-bye!" she heard, rather than saw, herself say. "I waited and waited and you didn't come!"

She noticed then that her lips weren't moving, but she could still hear her voice, ragged and accusing, looped over the scene like in a poorly-dubbed film.

"I thought we were friends! I thought I meant more to you than –"

And then she watched as he leaned forward…his hardness pressed against her, his cologne in her nostrils, his nearness like a steam envelope…and whispered in her ear,

"_Mi alma!"_

_..._

Then she came. Jerking and sobbing and head thrashing from side to side, her fingers slipped from between her legs as her orgasm washed over her, and she called his name over and over.

When it subsided, she was in her bed, alone, and her sheets were soaked and sticky. As her breathing settled, and her stomach calmed, she was left to wonder.

"Mi alma!" he'd said.

_My soul._


	2. Chapter 2: Feedback

_That's Pose-y Daniel. You're not that guy anymore._

Previously on: Daniel Meade's Morning Afters.

There's nothing like the familiar to make the world seem right again. Dry-mouthed and aching, the more so when consciousness rolled over him like a boulder. First his scalp…yikes...his neck…then his shoulders … chest…stomach… where it rolled to a stop. Just short of crushing his cock! gratitude swam upstream against the bleariness.

It had always ever been the same, waking up from the binging that followed the heartbreak: Sofia. Renee. Molly. _Something different this time. Something not the same._ Oh, yes: the girl who'd helped you recover from all those benders? Well. Is the girl who'd brought this one on.

Who was going to pick up his pieces and stuff them back inside, this time?

He dragged himself from the floor of the bathroom. He'd been sick since four that morning, vomiting until there was nothing left, then throwing up some more – there went the scotch and vodka and beer; then the grief and pain and bitterness. It wasn't until the heaving had stopped, sometime around six, that it occurred to him: he'd been trying to force the empty out.

The Daniel that looked back at him in the mirror was puffy and strange. Best not to stare. His eyelids fluttered down. He patted the surface of the sink, looking for --

_B-meep_. It didn't get louder (there it is); it didn't diminish (unscrew the cap); it didn't stop. He was so proud of his dexterity in that moment: even hungover, all of the Crest landed on the brush! _Bbb-meep. _Text waiting. Go faster. Why do my teeth hurt?

He spat the toothpaste onto his reflection. Ohhhh, CHRIST!

Last night, somewhere between weeping over a pink bunny and puking his guts out, he'd grabbed his cell and tapped out a message.

Even in his sodden state, he'd known he could never send it. How could he? An apology was one thing, but a confession? (_That's love, right?... when everything feels right… you may have feelings for her…You look great…That's love, right? right? right?)_

Not to mention, what kind of assjack would avoid his best friend, then stun her with some drunken declaration? by text? of feelings he wasn't even sure existed? no matter what his mother (_feelings for her)_ or Hilda (_he would throw himself under a bus for me_) might say on the subject.

His thumb was separate from his rational self. It hit **Send**. _I'm sorry. I love you. Daniel _vanished, to be replaced with **Message sent**. In the wake of the enormity of what he'd just done, there was a stagger, then a stumble, then a fall. He'd barely made it to the bathroom in time.

And now, an answer.

It would be a kind rejection – Betty was always kind, even when she was furious with him.

Or.

What if it were an…admission? _I love you too. _

He clutched the phone to his heart , which beat with every line he'd sent: _I'm sorry/I love you/Daniel._ Then he looked at the screen.

_Don't tell me. Tell Betty. _It was signed_, Mom._


End file.
